


Aurora

by Vivian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotions, Explicit Sexual Content, Hannibal-esque murder for in between, M/M, Mentions of Underage Sex, POV Alternating, mentions of rape fantasies, sin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 02:49:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10427472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: Sherlock calls itwinning, but that’s not all it is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks goes to my [darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas) for betaing this. I love you.  
> And also, to[ Jam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlocked) and [Alex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cormallen/pseuds/cracktheglasses) for the encouragement!

i.

 

The first time happens in school. Scent of sweat on the rubber floor of the gym, stale air, sunlight flooding in from the windows, his teacher’s voice saying, _Good Sherlock, keep him down._ They’re doing judo and Sherlock has Steve, his classmate, in a lock on the floor. That’s when it happens. Steve groaning, writhing, unable to twist free. A sharp spark of interest in Sherlock’s gut. He can’t place it then, but he learns later what it’s about. The adrenaline, the heat, the dizzying, glorious rush of power. He calls it _winning_ , but that’s not all it is. He tells no-one, especially not Mycroft. His brother would only narrow his eyes and smile like he knew something Sherlock didn’t, as he so often does. No. He tells no-one.

When he’s thirteen, he sometimes sneaks down the stairs at night, goes into the living room and turns on the telly, volume so low he has to crouch before the screen to hear. He zaps through the channels, looking at all the things he isn’t allowed to. The movies where they show sawed-off limbs and the movies with the naked ladies. He’s familiar with the human body, has studied it time and time again in his biology books, but this is different. This is alive. There’s one night when he stops at a channel that shows a dim-lit room and a lady with her arms bound at her back. She shivers, chest half revealed, skin pale as bone. A man comes into view, seizes her by the neck. She whimpers and pleads and Sherlock thinks _Oh._ Her face blurs in his memory over the years, but the fear in her eyes remains, the press of her lips and her crying. He thinks about that when he lies in bed. Her body struggling, and he himself, keeping her down. He wants to shove inside her, wants to hear her break. He spills against the covers. And when his breathing evens and his pulse slows, shame seeps through him, cold and ugly. He tries not to think of her again. It’s wrong and no-one must ever know. He does not look at the girls in his class, does not look at Steve. He presses his nails into his palms whenever his mind strays at night. He tells himself it doesn’t, but it does. During the days it’s easy not to think of it. There are mysteries to solve, adventures to go on. And nothing can rival the moments when the dots connect, the moments he understands, the moments he _knows_. It’s apotheosis stolen for a heartbeat. Bright and blazing. It is then he sees and craves to be seen. Soon, however, he learns that nobody quite does. Except Mycroft, but Mycroft doesn’t count, and Mycroft’s always busy, and when he’s not the polite condescension in his smile is enough for Sherlock to never want to speak to him again.

When he’s older and living in his own flat, he browses the internet every now and then, bedroom door closed, and looks at pictures of bodies bound, of tear-smeared cheeks and bruised lips. He strokes himself to it. It’s rash, focus narrowed until the scent of semen fills the air. Peace burns through him for a few seconds. He feels dirty afterwards. He deletes his internet history, wipes himself clean, opens the windows, and tries not to dream of bodies for him to break.

It’s a thing inside him, locked away until the witching hours. Sometimes, he doesn’t think of it for weeks, when a mystery is to be clawed from the dark, when knowledge comes as rays piercing twilight, until at last, the sun rises.

 

 

ii.

 

Jim is seven when his mother turns on the news one afternoon and he hears of the rape and murder of two teenagers. His mother quickly changes the channel.

He wishes she hadn’t. It’s a novel thing. An interesting thing. He tells his brother about it, and they play pretend. James is a little taller than Jim, and heavier. It feels good to have him on top of him as they lie in bed, door locked, and grind against each other. Jim tells James to hold him down, to squeeze his throat with both hands, _properly_. James chokes him, but there’s hesitation in it, no weight, not enough. He doesn’t mean it. They play two times. The third, Jim gets off the bed and takes James’ favourite toy train. He just weighs it in his hands a moment before he puts it back and leaves. The next day, it’s missing and James never sees it again. Jim finds other playmates. One of them is Carl, or at least Jim thinks Carl is his playmate until Carl laughs at him in front of his friends. He stops Carl laughing.

Some nights, Jim lies in bed and presses his thumbs over his own throat, imagining it’s someone else leaving imprints on his skin. He imagines dying. He thinks of nothingness extinguishing all the meaningless noise of the universe. But he can never quite manage.

He’s fourteen, three school classes ahead of his peers, when Mr Blake introduces himself as their new mathematics teacher. He’s tall and slender, spindly glasses on a crooked nose, and he’s the first teacher who actually knows what he’s talking about. His eyes are watery green and his smile curves delicately, half hidden behind the back of his hand. Jim knows from first glance. Jim excels in his class, drawing the scorn of all his classmates along. Jim sees him after school, shuffling papers with more complex equations Jim’s solved on his lap. Sometimes their fingers brush. Mr Blake’s eyes narrow at that, and he smiles, sly, before pulling away. One afternoon, Jim follows him home. He moves unseen until he reaches the porch. He rings the bell.

At twenty-one Jim has slept with eight people and killed ten. He likes to be touched, but he doesn’t like to touch. Not those he fucks, not those he murders. That’s not why he does either—for touch—he does it because he can. Because he wants to. Solving equations is inadequate. It’s lifeless. Jim needs the world to be in motion.

At night, he dreams of silence. At daybreak, he dares and disturbs the universe.

 

iii.

 

Sherlock comes into his life with four knocks against his door. Beethoven’s Fate motif rings in Jim’s ears. He can’t tear his gaze away. He’s heard his name before. It’s all clear now. It was him, two decades ago. The only one who saw. Sherlock is a single string of tone among the noise.

 

Sherlock—scalpel mind, storm-born, wan in the mornings and erupting before midnight, hurling himself towards conundrum to force back the choking greys of ennui. He dissects and distills. He walks among the battlefield caught in rapture. In a world of blind men, he _sees_. Jim bares a sliver of himself and waits for Sherlock to rip him from obscurity.

Sherlock steals a glimpse and _knows_ Jim. They walk in the same demimonde, they are made of the same thread, drawn from the same sentence, same same same—

Jim lies awake at night. He’s banished Sebastian from his bed, can’t bear his tender touch. He presses the heels of his palms against brow bone and eye socket. He feels so heavy. He can’t breathe. There’s a tremble inside him that never quite leaves him anymore.

He says, _We’re Plato’s children of the sun_ and grins, standing in Sherlock’s lightless room.

 _Feeling philosophical?_ Sherlock asks, almost cold, but not quite.  

They meet like breath on water, creating waves without touch. But it’s in the blue of Sherlock’s eyes, the hunger for all the things Jim holds in his palm. Jim wants to both give to him and take all from him. He closes his eyes and dreams of a fall. He’s not sure if it’s his own or Sherlock’s.

 

iv.

 

Jim is like smoke in Sherlock’s lungs. He’s like fire in the pit of his stomach, burning, mouth of flames and eyes like soot. He’s quiet as morning, soft as shards of glass in rain, he’s nebulous, mirror-image in an empty space. His spectre tears Sherlock from slumber. He lies in cold sweat. Jim is the itch that mustn’t be scratched lest one bleeds, the door forbidden to open, opened. Sherlock wants to run right through.

 

v.

 

They do not quite collide. They graze. It’s how Jim navigates them, how he wants them to be—Jim leading their dance. And oh, Sherlock dances beautifully. Like a storm. Like a bullet. And Jim wants to say _Shot me, shoot me, barrel in my mouth, knock back the hammer, trigger happy._ He doesn’t, though. That’d be easy. And Jim’s not easy. And Sherlock doesn’t _like_ easy. Instead, Jim commences war, recruits soldiers and guides all the pieces into place. Slowly, carefully. There’s no rush. Except of course Sherlock, who’s always in a rush, always pressing, forcing his way.

So when they graze it’s like metal on metal: A noise shatters through space. Sparks fly. It’s them at the pool, in 221b, the first time, the second and the third. It’s never like the time before, they’re never like the time before, always a step past or to the side. It’s Jim visiting when John’s gone, cap askew on his head, chewing gum, tracing a finger over the dust on the mantlepiece. He pushes the gum under his teeth, left side, then brings his finger to his mouth. Sherlock stands and watches. A heartbeat. Movement. Invading, cornering, always towering. Always beautiful. Never soft.

He can feel Sherlock’s breath on his cheek.

 _Why, my dear, one might think you’re shy,_ Jim says and Sherlock’s lip curves, he knows about the gun in Jim’s pocket, of course he does, and he thinks Jim won’t use it. He doesn’t know for certain because Jim _is_ changeable. There’ve been times when the mood had struck. When Jim had thought, _why not end it now_ and wished for Sherlock’s brain splattered on his wall. Or his plate. But now that he’s before him, sees feels smells him, he can’t. Sherlock steps forward and slides his hand into Jim’s pocket. His fingers curl around the gun.

 _Are you excited to see me?_ Sherlock asks, voice deep. Jim shivers. It’d be effortless killing Sherlock now. A flick of his finger and Sebastian would shoot. Even from this angle. But Jim just tilts his head back while Sherlock crowds him against the wall. He slips out the gun, nuzzles it against Jim’s rib cage. It glides higher to where his heart is. The clamour of his own pulse is as close to silence as he’s ever come. A sudden movement. The gun clatters to the floor. Sherlock smiles sharp. Then he wraps both hands around Jim’s throat and leans in.

 

vi.

 

Jim’s eyes are black. No hint of pupil or iris, just shadow, and within it, a sharp reflection of light. He blinks. Something stirs the air in Sherlock’s lungs. Something changes. Between them— A sudden adrenaline high spirals Sherlock into the sky. His hands against Jim’s throat, and underneath them the hammer of pulse. Of life. Of Jim. Who, it seems strange now, is of flesh and blood. He narrows his eyes at him, at his throat and his fingers around it. He squeezes and Jim breathes in, haltering. He does nothing but stare, this body given to Sherlock’s mercy. And of course Jim knows that Sherlock has none. He smiles and Jim smiles back. Sherlock knows there’s a sniper on the roof of the opposite building.

 _Do I terrify you_ , Jim whispers. Yes. _Or do you feel alive?_ Yes.

Sherlock leans in and kisses him. Just a press of lips before he steps back, picking up the gun, saying _D’you mind if I keep that?_

Jim slowly unfolds himself from the wall, reptilian. _Not at all, bonbon._ Jim’s blackened gaze never leaves him. Slowly Jim strolls to the door. He throws one last glance at Sherlock. _Ciao._ Then he’s out the door. The sudden empty space is deafening and total. Sherlock listens for Jim’s steps on the stairs.

A week later he calls Jim in the middle of the night. He can’t sleep. John’s out with his girlfriend. Not a single interesting case for days. He needs—

Jim sounds mildly annoyed when he answers the phone. It doesn’t last long. He can hear cloth rustling, bedsheets shifting, tap of bare feet on wooden floor, the noise of a car going by, and a soft mumble, not Jim’s, in the background. Sherlock swallows. He’s not sure why he’s called, shouldn’t have called. Jim says, _Trouble sleeping?_ Sherlock says, _I don’t sleep._ Jim laughs softly. _Want me to warm your bed with gasoline and a cigarette?_

Sherlock thinks of his fingers around Jim’s throat. He thinks of bruises blooming, of flesh for him to mould. _Still there?_ Clear annoyance in Jim’s voice. Before he can answer, Jim says, _Either way. I have an early start. Nighty night._

The line cuts. He’s left to the witching hours.

 

Two days later Jim texts, _Call your DI friend._

Sherlock sends a message to Lestrade reading, _You need my help. -SH_. Lestrade calls back immediately, seeming almost relieved. He invites Sherlock to a crime scene at the Royal Festival Hall. The homicide team greets him with looks of disdain, but Sherlock barely notices. He shoves through the crowd, gaze straight ahead. A spider-like net of about three metres in diameter is strung in the centre of the stage. And within it, a man. Sherlock advances. The man is naked, dried blood caked around his nostrils, stitched up scar down his torso. His fingers are curled around a bow.

 _Ah,_ Sherlock says, delighted. He bends forward, looks closer. The net is made of violin strings. Not metal, but gut. _We have no ID on the victim,_ Lestrade says. Sherlock purses his lips and shoots him a look. Lestrade makes to stand beside him, but Sherlock waves his hand at him to stay back.

 _Don’t contaminate the crime scene,_ Sherlock snaps.

Lestrade stills, mutters, _You got any ideas?_

Sherlock snorts. He takes out his magnifier, circles the net, glances here and there. He takes it all in. He says, _It required precision, keys to the concert hall, time to prepare the construction, enough strength to pull up the body and secure it into the net, obviously not a first timer, definitely someone with a sense of humour judging by the victim’s hands, victim certainly played a string instrument himself and not too well if I had to guess, or at least not well enough._

 _Sense of humour?_ Lestrade asks. Sherlock ignores him and instead takes a peek at the stitch marks. Post mortem.

 _Now that’s scrumptious,_ Sherlock says.

 _What is?_ Lestrade asks.

_Killer took a trophy. Get the body to Bart’s, I need to see the autopsy._

When Sherlock’s in a taxi back to Baker Street he texts Jim, _So nice of you to share_.

The reply is immediate. _Thought you might enjoy. x_

Sherlock grins, types, _Cannibals are so rare these days._

No answer for a couple of minutes. Then,

_Want to have dinner?_

Sherlock chuckles. _Oh please._

_A girl gotta try._

The taxi halts and Sherlock gets out. He opens the door with one hand and types with the other.

_You never try._

Jim just sends a grinning emoji back. Sherlock stuffs the phone into his pocket and opens the door.

_Welcome home._

Jim strolls towards him, cup in one hand, phone in the other. His hair is wet and a towel lies around his neck. Sherlock falters, then straightens. Jim slumps into Sherlock’s chair and takes a sip of tea. He grimaces at the taste, says,

_How was your day?_

_What are you doing here?_

_Oh you know,_ Jim waves his hand in a vague gesture.

They stare at each other.

Jim says, _His scream bloomed like a red flower._

 _You didn’t kill him,_ Sherlock says, irritated.

_No. But I listened in._

_Friend of yours?_

_So to speak._

_Why alert me to the case then?_

_Why not?_

Jim takes another sip of tea, then glances upwards. Sherlock can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. Jim raises his eyebrows, smiles back.

 _Well now. It’s getting late,_ Jim says. He leaves the tea and stands.

Sherlock steps forward, blocking his way. Jim’s gaze darkens. Sherlock reaches out. He traces a finger over Jim’s jaw, down his throat. Jim’s pupils dilate. There’s something searching in Jim’s gaze—a question— Jim takes a step closer. His presence—electric. The rush of adrenaline in Sherlock’s veins. He seizes a fistful of Jim’s wet hair and tilts his head back, baring his throat. He doesn’t think. The next second his lips press over it, then he tastes with his tongue, sucks the skin between his teeth. Jim’s breath hitches when Sherlock bites. And like before, the rhythm of life against Sherlock’s touch. He bites harder and wraps his free hand around Jim’s waist. He pushes him against the back of the armchair. Sherlock feels like a child again, experiencing thrill for the first time. The sharpness of it total, reaving him of breath, plunging his brain into overdrive—all his senses— The scent of his own soap on Jim’s skin, the taste clean, the heat of his body as it yields to his own, Jim’s yet wet hair in his grip, and then— _slowly_ —Jim’s fingers grazing the lapels of his coat. Sherlock lets go of Jim’s waist and sheds his coat, it falls to the floor. They look at each other, Jim’s eyes wide, something tightens in Sherlock’s chest, tightens, tightens, and _snaps_ —

He shoves Jim back, the chair’s feet screech against the floorboards, and then Sherlock kisses him. Jim’s mouth opens and Sherlock steals the gasp that falls from Jim’s lips. He slides his tongue inside, whole body on fire when the tips of their tongues touch. He claws at Jim’s open shirt, rips it from his shoulders so he can _feel_. Skin so warm under his hand, there his collarbone, his chest, hard nipple underneath the tip of his finger. And Jim’s growing hardness against Sherlock’s thigh. Something short-circuits inside Sherlock. He moves back, pulling Jim along and then manhandles him into the bedroom. Jim doesn’t say anything, lets himself be moved until Sherlock pushes him onto the bed. Jim catches himself on his elbow.

 _Sherlock,_ Jim mumbles.

Sherlock just stands there, staring at him. The expanse of Jim’s bare torso, and between his thighs, his cock straining against his trousers.

 _Undress,_ Sherlock demands.

Jim moves slowly, gaze open, as real as touch. When he is naked, Sherlock advances. All sound is drowned from the world, him and Jim, suspended in silence. He shrugs off his own clothes, cold air on skin, a hook of uncertainty in his gut, he falters.

 _Come,_ Jim says.

Sherlock sits down. Jim so pale, limbs of cream against the black bedsheets, not untainted. Speckles of dark hair on his arms and legs, he looks unreal, not of flesh, but he is. Jim sits up, movement reptilian-slow. They kiss. Heat surges through Sherlock. He pushes Jim down and crawls on top of  him, hands sliding up Jim’s arms. Underneath his finger the faint swelling of scars running from wrist to the dip of elbow. Sherlock’s breath quickens. Jim shivers beneath him.

 _Sherlock,_ Jim whispers.

 _Jim,_ he echoes.

And that is all.

It feels inevitable, this. It feels like he might shatter, might shatter Jim, cut each other open with shards of themselves, uncertain whom they did belong to.

 _Sometimes_ , Sherlock thinks, _my thoughts have your voice_.

Jim cups his face, and then his lips part as if he were surprised by his own action, as if he hadn’t meant to. The touch is tender, careless. Sherlock smirks. It feels like— like—

 _Winning_.

He watches Jim swallow, watches his gaze cloud over.

 _Oh,_ Sherlock says, danger like voltage in his veins. He laughs, sudden and elated, sound echoing between their mouths. Jim doesn’t let go, instead grits his teeth and digs his nails into Sherlock’s skin.

 _What are you waiting for, virgin boy?_ he asks, voice flat.

Sherlock’s smile fades. He kisses Jim hard and jabs himself between Jim’s thighs. A sharp exhale escapes him. Pleasure sparks in the pit of his stomach. Their cocks slide against each other, slick with precome. Jim moans. He’s pliant beneath Sherlock, muscle and flesh, yielding, _inviting_. Jim grabs at him. Nails rake over Sherlock’s back, to his arse. Jim pulls him closer. For a moment they simply move against each other. Sherlock’s drunk on it, the chemistry in his blood and brain and body. Scraping the sky, staring into blue, when any moment he might fall. And he’s not sure he’d _mind_. He laughs, breathless, against Jim’s skin, bites at his throat until he leaves a darkening imprint of teeth. He draws back so as to kneel between Jim’s legs, and looks. Jim, spread out before him, Jim, Jim, Jim. He knows him. He knows, blasphemous, _religious_. Sherlock laughs again, low in his throat, his hands are shaking, he’s never felt this high. He bares his teeth, commands, _Struggle,_ and then he descends on Jim. Flood of endorphins. Jim writhes beneath him, bucks upwards, grapples at him, all heat and desperation, he fights feral, and Sherlock breaks him down. He bruises him, bends him, until sweat stings their scraped-open skin, until Sherlock’s touch is undeniable on Jim’s body. Jim gasps, snarls, moans and sobs, and Sherlock drinks it all in.

 _I want,_ Sherlock rasps, and Jim says,

 _Yes,_ and it’s absolute.

Sherlock opens the bedside cabinet, scrabbling for the lube he keeps. He finds it, uncaps it and pours some of the liquid onto his hands. Jim stares at him.

 _D’you keep that for when you play with yourself?_ Jim asks. He’s lying there, chest heaving, eyes dark and heavily lidded, he looks like sin.

 _Yes,_ Sherlock says and moves between Jim’s legs. He stares at Jim, how his throat works as he swallows and lies back, gaze intent on Sherlock. Sherlock’s being splayed open by it, laid bare. He moves closer, rubs a single finger over Jim’s entrance, watches him shiver. Jim doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. Sherlock pushes the tip of his finger inside, slowly works the whole length in. He doesn’t wait long until he adds a second finger, crooks them. Jim moans, sound slipping out of him like confession, he arcs his back, presses his palms over his eyes as his body spasms. Heat mounts within Sherlock. He grabs his own cock, strokes it once, twice, then he pushes a third finger into Jim. A more broken sound falls from Jim’s lips. Sherlock stares at Jim’s hole wrapped tight over his fingers, knows it can’t have been enough preparation and doesn’t care. He tugs out his fingers. Jim whines. Sherlock slicks his cock, says, _Look at me,_ and then positions himself. He presses inside the moment their gazes meet. Jim’s eyes widen, then roll back into his skull. His mouth splits around a soundless moan. Jim’s insides are fever-hot, clasping around Sherlock’s cock as he thrusts in without waiting. He drapes himself over Jim, elbow next to Jim’s head, other hand clutching Jim’s thigh. _Oh god,_ Sherlock gasps. He doesn’t move, can’t or he’ll come. He shuts his eyes, grits his teeth and tries to get his body under control.

 _Sherlock,_ comes Jim’s roughened, quiet voice. Sherlock opens his eyes. Jim stares up at him, single trace of tear over his cheek. Sherlock bends down and licks it from his skin. Then he kisses Jim and Jim kisses back, soft and desperate. Something unspoken hangs in the air. Sherlock lets his head sink onto the pillow next to Jim’s, mouths at Jim’s ear while he hooks Jim’s leg over his hip. Fingers on Sherlock’s back, in the nape of his neck, Jim’s trembling inhale. Sherlock’s cock twitches. He starts moving, draws back a little and pushes back in. Jim moans. Slowly, Sherlock heaves himself up again. Jim looks at him, cheeks flushed, lips bitten red. A shiver runs down Sherlock’s spine. He takes Jim’s wrists, pushes them above his head with one hand and grabs his hip with the other. He thrusts. Slick, tight heat, pleasure like lightning underneath his skin. They kiss, messy, tongue and teeth, and Sherlock tastes blood and he’s not sure if it’s Jim’s or his own. Jim’s cock rubs against his stomach, heavy, smeared with precome. He fucks Jim harder. They work up a rhythm that knocks the bed against the wall. Thought leaves Sherlock. It’s all heat and instinct. He lets go of Jim’s wrists and instead wraps his hands around Jim’s throat. Jim’s eyes flutter closed. Sherlock presses down on him with all his weight, some spark inside him, indescribable, as he comes closer. He wants to take it all from Jim, wants all of him, all of it, _everything_ — Sherlock growls and tightens his grip, watches Jim’s face redden, watches how he gasps for air in vain, body spasming, hands clawing at Sherlock’s as he drives into him, cock twitching against Sherlock’s stomach, eyes opening and rolling back, and then— Jim’s grip slackens. Consciousness drains from Jim as he comes. Slick between their bodies. Sherlock lets go, sudden fear spearing through him, and harsher still, the ecstasy of thrill. White heat claims Sherlock. He climaxes.

Slowly, he comes back to himself. Jim gazes at him from beneath dark lashes. For a moment, Jim looks almost peaceful. Sherlock swallows, pulse in his ears. His gaze slides to Jim’s throat, collar of bruises in the shape of Sherlock’s hands. He slips out of Jim and collapses next to him.

 

They don’t speak. Their breathing echoes in the silence.

At some point, Jim turns away from him.

 

v.

 

Dawn. Light floods through the curtains, douses all in red. Sherlock sleeps beside him. His black curls stark against the paleness of his skin, hues of pink cast over it. He looks sharp and sacrosanct, and if Sherlock were to look at him now—

Jim’s lungs cord up. He can’t bear the heaviness. He turns his head, stares without seeing. He’s unable to breathe. He drags his hands over his face, jaw clenching. He presses the heels of his palms over his eyes, tries to shut out the brightness.  

He thinks of the fall. He’s bereft of shadows, bare as the sun rises over the horizon. Sherlock is right beside him, has seen him, knows him. And Jim is inconsolable.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think.  
> These two mean so much to me.
> 
> Also, have a look at my Sherlock [paintings](http://summeringminor.tumblr.com/tagged/sherlock).


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